


Sunday in 221B

by thewaitwasworthitlove



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, sunday morning, with a sprinkle of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:16:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaitwasworthitlove/pseuds/thewaitwasworthitlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lazy Sunday with our two favorite residents of 221B (sorry Billy the Skull).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday in 221B

**Author's Note:**

> “Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.”  
> ― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The hallway was littered with a trail of clothing. An inside-out jumper slumped against the wall at the bathroom, a  deep blue scarf tossed carelessly over the back of the red chair in the sitting room, a litany of socks and belts, a tangle of trousers. John Watson was sleeping on his back, his limbs carelessly entangled with Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s head tucked into his chest, ear pressed to his heart. It was like this that John stirred into wakefulness, late morning sunlight streaming into the window and dancing across them both, setting off the rich glow of Sherlock’s tangled curls. He watched the man for a moment and grinned.

They’d solved the murder by 12:30 last night. Sherlock, as always, had been brilliant, the lightening quick deductions going off like a machine gun. They’d whirled about London—Sherlock being astounding, John quietly guarding the man that had somehow crept into his life, stolen his heart away, and claimed it for his own. After it was over, they ran away from Greg’s questions in a streak of wool and leather, brilliance and gun smoke. Monday. They would deal with Greg’s questions on Monday. They’d made their way home. What had followed was the two men greedily tearing at one another’s clothing, each newly exposed piece of skin something to be worshiped. They’d fallen into their bed, laughing and growing solemn in turns, their lovemaking joyous and sometimes more for either of the two of them to bear alone. Cresting and troughing together as they chased and found one another again and again.

Now, the Great Sherlock Holmes was clinging to him like a climbing vine, his lips slightly open and soft, grunting snuffles coming from his mouth. Slowly and expertly, John extracted himself from the detective’s grasp, running a brief hand through the riotous curls before padding to the kitchen. Sherlock would sleep for at least another hour or two. He’d been up for four days this time; he would crash at least a full twelve hours. John set the kettle to brewing, reading the paper and picking up the clothing from last night and depositing it in the washing. Breakfast.

 After all this time together, John Watson had learned most of Sherlock’s secrets. His claim not to speak for days was broken if John mentioned the words ‘solar system’ or ‘honey bees.” He would play violin at all hours of the night, but if John came and kissed him softly on the back of the neck, the plaintive wails would become sweet, honeyed songs. And, most importantly on this lazy Sunday morning-turned-almost-afternoon, Sherlock Holmes adored French toast. 

The first time, John had made it on a whim. They had some bread that was almost hard and some eggs that needed to be eaten before they turned. He’d just been sprinkling the tops with powdered sugar and cinnamon when Sherlock had somehow materialized in the kitchen, his eyes lit up and wide, a quick pass of a pink tongue over his plush top lip.  John gave the plate to him without question, and it was worth it to eat cold cereal just to see the look on Sherlock’s face.

Once the toast was done, the tea appropriately steeped, he loaded it all onto a breakfast tray and wandered back to the bedroom. Sherlock had migrated to the middle of the bed, the blankets and sheets all twisted around him like he was sleeping in the eye of a hurricane comprised of cotton and down. He sat the food on the nightstand and crawled back into bed, fighting his way through the mountain of bedclothes and finally making contact with Sherlock’s sleep-warmed skin.

The contact made Sherlock stretch and curl around him like a cat before cracking one eye, a sliver of bright blue greeting him. “Mm, sleeping,” he said haughtily, promptly closing his eye again.

John laughed. “Well that is too bad. I guess I’ll have to eat all this French toast myself,” he sighed, a smile playing over his face. He scooted up to sit up, his back against the pillows at the headboard and pulled the tray on his lap. With those words, a mussed nest of curls poked from the center of the comforter tempest. Sherlock’s eyes were wide-open now, his expression expectant as he scrambled with long limbs akimbo to plop down beside of John.          

“Thought you might see it my way,” John crowed.

“Shut up,” Sherlock retorted.

John handed Sherlock his plate, and pushed his tea cup to the far edge of the tray closest to Sherlock. They ate in companionable silence. Both men had been secretly afraid that this addition to their relationship would somehow alter the fabric of the tapestry entirely. That it would somehow make it incomprehensible for either of them. But, it was moments like this that reassured both how well it had all woven together, a new color of thread, but still the same. A new instrument to the symphony, perhaps even a new movement, but all the old harmonies.

After breakfast was over, they lazed in the bed, both loath to do anything that would upset this golden bubble of happiness amongst the murders and police sirens. It was a moment of peace both men desperately tried to lock away, seal in amber so it could be rendered timeless.

The calm between storms,

the f-holes of a violin,

the barrel of a gun,

the gaps between words still not ready to be said.  

All those empty spaces filled with so much, overripe with anticipation. Each waiting for the next crack of lightening, the next song, the next bullet, the first murmured ‘ _I love you._ ’

* * *

 

Later, John would lick his way into Sherlock’s mouth, savoring the hint of syrup and quick on his way to gasping at the  _astonishing_ things Sherlock was doing with his hands. He would remember that there was nothing better than this, nothing better than Sundays in 221B. He would remark that it was a moment to be savored.

It’s heartbreaking how correct he is.

Bright on Monday morning, a man in a baseball cap will stride into the Tower of London, chomping at his gum with a diamond in his pocket.

The storm would crash and rave, the violin would fall silent, the gun would become more of a temptation than a protection, and the words, finally uttered against sweat soaked skin in the last gasps of that Sunday, would be sealed away forever, infinitely precious. 

And it is that last Sunday, that warm, perfect Sunday, that would keep John Watson sane, through all the weary Mondays, never-ending Wednesdays, and abominable Saturday nights, until the day Sherlock Holmes returns and it can finally be Sunday again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out some of my other works as well! There's a multi-chapter WIP, but also another one-shot, "Defining Terms" that you might enjoy as well.


End file.
